In the middle of Olympic season, while helping sweep the yard, D declared he’ll never give up. Not ever. Even if he loses. I told him he’s awesome, then I said, “Me, too, Bud. In fact, let’s make it a pact. I’ll never give up either. We’ll seal it with a fist bump.” He told me he was too busy sweeping, and we’d have to fist bump later. Which we did. Thank you, Olympics, for this stellar moment at the end of a busy and bumpy summer. I look back and feel sort of beaten up, like I’m happy to have survived.
Two months have passed since the twins’ sixth birthday, two wild months that included learning to swim, a broken wrist, a road trip from Seattle to San Francisco, boat rides, new movies, new glasses and their first sleepover. The summer culminated with the start of kindergarten, and “It’s The End Of The World As We Know It” looping through my head.
After all that mayhem, to sit in a silent house with my laptop feels erie. This morning, as he was getting his backpack on for his third day of school, L said, “The world is changed forever.” He’s right. The crash echoing through my body is the door that just slammed shut on the years of being home with my kids. Maybe once I get through all the looming tasks and chores that have been pushed aside all summer, the reality will set in. I feel a tremendous pressure to address what’s next. How will I start making money? How will I fill my time? But today is only day three. I have a lot of catching up to do, a house to deep clean, projects to finish, things to take care of. My brain has been holding out for this vacation for so long, there is nothing I can do to make it function. Today, I am starting to miss them. But, the boys are so ready to be in school. They’ve been ready since last Fall. They’ve been splitting the seams of our house and my sanity all summer. A shift happened where they no longer need me in order to function, and instead need me mainly for discipline and judgement calls. I’m pretty happy to pass off the daytime controls.
I swore this summer I’d have them clean up their room every night, start getting up earlier to be ready for the new school schedule, brush their teeth every day in the morning as well as at night, be dressed before breakfast, earn stars for chores, and be more helpful running the household in general. HA-Hahaha-Aah-hahahaHaHaHahee.
The reality is that they slept in, stayed in pajamas unless we had somewhere to be, forgot about the star chart for weeks (my bad,) and generally got a lot of uninterrupted play time. They watched, “The Force Awakens” at least eleven times. It was just so much easier to get chores done without their help. They used this to their advantage with precocious skill. Like, when I was trying to get shit done, and L wanted to watch a video. When I shower, I often let them watch, so he tried to convince me to take a shower by saying, “Mom! You went to yoga, and you’re going to stink if you don’t shower!”
Two weeks before school started, we told them they’d be in two different classes at their new school, and both took the news with consternation, not happy about it, but not trying to refuse it, either. We started telling them about everything we could think of from our own kindergarten days, the school bell, raising your hand to speak, following instructions, making friends… They responded by wanting more cuddles at night, by crawling into bed with us again in the morning (something they haven’t done in a year or so,) and by bickering a whole lot more. Two days before school started, as if in early rebellion, the boys stripped off their clothes, filled the sand pit with water & made a total muddy mess of themselves and the yard. I actually enjoyed this flashback to when they were three. It was also a rare warm day in an otherwise wintery San Francisco summer. 
The mudbath was fun, a release of all that tension, a coming back to the familiar. I let them play and get as muddy as possible. There is no way to cram for the start of school, it’s not like a test. There was nothing to do but enjoy the last moments of summer, the end of life as we knew it. (Picture is of a day at the beach this summer. The black flecks in the sand are scattered bits of charred wood from the many fire pits since the only reason to go to the beach is for a bonfire.)
Four days before school started, we went to the kindergarten orientation, where the principal addressed the crowded auditorium by introducing our kids’ teachers, who stood in a small row on the stage. “THEY LOOK FIFTEEN!” I whispered to Maddy. The first thing the principal did was have all the kids follow their teachers to their new classrooms. Boom. Just like that, our twins were separated. I choked back tears, and looked around at the other parents, who all looked the way I felt: way more concerned than their kids were over this sudden turn of events. The kids filed out of the auditorium behind teachers who looked like kids themselves. Were my kids ready to be alone in a crowd like this?? I watched them in line, trying so hard to be good, following instructions, not looking for me. A few kids cried, and their parents pushed them into line, no doubt feeling the heavy peer pressure of an auditorium full of parents trying to gracefully let go of their kids. L peeked at Maddy and me with a quick wave and a grin, then went back to his serious procession. D stayed focused. I have no idea what the principal said to the crowd after that. Eventually we were released to our kids’ classrooms to get the scoop from their teachers while all the kindergarteners played for the first time together on the playground. I stared out the window while L’s teacher talked about the routine and homework, field trips and classroom supplies we could donate. I glimpsed my kids on the ladder, on the slide, looking fine, having fun, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then the enormity of this change began to set in. It’s the end of an era. I will no longer be the primary structure of my kids lives. Did I teach them enough? Will they thrive? Will they choose friends or be chosen? Will they have the agency to ask when they don’t have answers? Will they speak up for themselves? Will they be agents of peace and belonging, or will they exclude other kids? Will they speak up for others? Will they recognize choices and make good ones?
Maddy came out of D’s classroom looking serious. “It’s too big,” she said. “The school is so big!” We stood on the playground with the heaviness of this huge, life transition, and our kids played like it was just another day at the park.
They let us dress them in button-down shirts and new pants on their first day of school. I think they both even liked dressing up for once. After that orientation, it was almost mundane to take them to school. I didn’t even cry. 
It totally helped that there are several families from our awesome preschool at our new school, so I was never alone to reflect. The kids know two other kindergarteners from preschool as well. They absolutely lit up to see each other on the first day.
I thought I’d come home that first day and clean. Clean and clean and clean and organize and do all the house chores I’ve been wanting to do for months. But it’s day three, and I keep finding other things that need to be done. I feel like I have all the time in the world to clean up, to recalibrate, to start fresh. On day three, I am still so tired. My brain is on vacation. It’s all I can do to stay awake.
After the first day of school, the boys were asked over and over, “How was it? What did you do? Do you like your teacher? Did you make new friends?” At first, neither had anything to say. But with prompting, like, “Did you sing the ABC song?,” they divulged some details. Yes, they sang the ABC song. The traditional way. They did not sing the soul-version. They both also sang “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider.” L’s teacher gave out candy (!) at the end of the first school day. D felt very much slighted because his teacher gave out bubbles, which are obviously not nearly as awesome. L sweetly shared his candy with D.
On day two, D began learning the alphabet in sign language. I met his new friend, Matthew, who told me in a concerned voice about a kid in a red shirt who hit another kid. It happened at recess, and the teacher didn’t even see it. D’s class had a birthday party, and D got a cupcake AND ice cream. This time, L felt very much slighted. There was none left for D to share. Leaving school, D pointed out a little girl getting into a car, and said, “IT’S HER BIRTHDAY!” We wished her a happy birthday, and her mom popped out with a tray of leftover cupcakes, offering one to L. What a lucky kid! That night, as L lay in bed, he asked, “How long is it until Christmas?” I told him about five months. He asked how many weeks, then how many days that was. When I told him about 130 days, he exclaimed, “I’ll be DEAD by then!!” I said I certainly hoped NOT! Then he asked if he’d still be six by then. When I told him it was more than twice as long, about 300 days, until he turns seven, he was blown away. “NO WAY!” He exclaimed in disbelief. It was too much to contemplate. Numbers past 10 are simply big, kind of like how there isn’t a difference between the cost of a new house and a really big Lego set. Anything past next week seems impossibly far away. I said goodnight thinking, “that’s how I’ve been feeling for years, Buddy, and ‘next week’ (ie- the next chapter) is finally, impossibly here.”
On their first hump day, I arrived to the pick up the kids, and D’s teacher informed me he spent time in the office because he got kicked in the mouth. D showed me under the play structure where it happened. There had been blood. All he could say for sure was that the kid who did it was wearing a yellow shirt. Why, how, or whether the kid was a boy or girl was not clear, but the office staff were very nice to him. L proudly showed me a folder in his backpack that his teacher will use to communicate with us. While waiting for the kids to get into their bath, I picked up my old Rubik’s Cube, which was sitting in the kids’ room. In glorious, 12-year-old nerd-dom, my friend and I long ago memorized how to solve the cube using sequences from a book. It’s easy to get one side done, and then you work by row. I can still get it half done, but I can’t remember the rest. D was very excited that I got the cube half done, and watched carefully while I messed around, trying to remember the old sequences. After a bit, in defeat, I put the cube down, and he whispered, “Don’t give up, Mama.” OMFG, the fist bump, the Olympics. Now I had to figure out how to do an effing Rubik’s Cube. (I so love the internet for this. So happy I didn’t have to go buy a book!)
By day four, it’s like all the stories & fights & hugs & meals & begging & whining & mayhem of an entire day are compressed into the four or so hours between pickup from school and sleep.
On the way to school on day five, L says,
“Mama, remember when I lost my cuddles last night?”
I answer, “Yep. That was sad. Were you sad?”
“Yea.”
“We’ll have to make sure that doesn’t happen tonight.”
Silence.
“If you’re calling out pee-pee face or whatever & I say stop, what are you going to do??”
Silence.
“Are you going to stop??”
Giggling.
We made it to the weekend. Friday night, we went out to celebrate, and in hindsight, it was probably a bit much to ask the kids to behave in a restaurant. But the sushi was so good! Here we are. It’s a new life. With the mental break during the day, I’m so much better at sticking to the night and morning routines during the week. The trick to surviving the first week of school is the same as surviving every other day of this parenting adventure: one moment at a time.
Despite being in a big city public school for a whole week already, the boys are still blissfully innocent. At least D is. Sunday, on a whim, I put on “Free To Be, You And Me.” It’s a wonderful 1970s album that I listened to as a kid with cute songs and stories about making friends and questioning gender roles. The boys worked on Legos and tolerated it. (Their usual requests are “Gangam Style” and JLo’s “On The Floor.”) A snappy poem ended with, “When there’s housework to do, you do it TOGETHER!’ to which I shouted from the kitchen, “HEAR, HEAR!” A minute later, D hollered back, “Who’s here?!”
Mamagrit 